August 30, 2008

It is nearly September, and local Italian prune plums have begun to appear. It is time to go (plum) crazy eating them and cooking them up. As I do every year, I am making my daughter's plum cake. Repeatedly.

She, who is also known as the redfox, of the hungry tiger, writes an excellent food blog, and she has been around a lot longer than I have, though it seems like a funny thing to say about one's child. She helped me overcome my computer klutziness sufficiently to set up here, taught me the meaning of html, and exhibited remarkable patience throughout.

She is a very good cook, and this is her recipe, which appeared in the hungry tiger back in 2002. You can find it there, and see how simple it is? Pretty and delicious, and just the thing with a cup of tea. Or with your breakfast coffee.

I have deviated slightly, using a vanilla bean, scraped, instead of the extract. This is because I recently went mad, and bought a pound of gorgeous vanilla beans wholesale. About which, more later. Also, I use demarara sugar in the topping, because I am a sucker for a bit of sparkle. I make this cake frequently in the fall. Everyone likes it. There is only one bowl to wash. It keeps well. And that is all I have to say about that, for now. Bring on the plums!

Excuse the mysterious, swirling darkness of the photo. I took it indoors, due to the rain. I have definitely not mastered the non-daylight photo taking. Had I waited until it stopped raining, the cake would have been entirely gone.

July 16, 2008

By Thursday morning, I had concluded that there was no denying my unexpectedly ravenous morning appetite. I guess I'm not usually particularly hungry for breakfast, because my real job is sedentary, and I don't generally work until nine at night, either. So I took my hungry self to Heaven on Seven, described by the Slow Food Chicago guide as "New Orleans North, " where I had the above-pictured breakfast of poached eggs and andalouille sausage on cheese grits.

I'm afraid that I chuckled when I saw the plated breakfast, which looks like the Fisher Price play clock we used to teach my daughter to tell time, in the analog days of yore. The waiter seemed a mite offended, though I meant only to show my appreciation. I made sure to tell him how delicious it was, and I think I was forgiven. It really was wonderful, everything cooked perfectly, and the chopped green onions on top were just the right touch.

Heaven on Seven is located on the seventh floor (hence the name) of the Garland building at 111 N. Wabash, across from Macy's- formerly Marshall Field.* The ambiance is Early Tabasco, and they serve a variety of wonderful looking gumbos and estoufees and other cajun specialties. It was seriously crowded for lunch, by the time I left, but easy to be seated for a late breakfast.

After breakfast, I headed on over to the Daley Plaza Farmers' Market, one of many downtown and neighborhood markets sponsored by the Mayor's Office of Special Events. This one is open on Thursdays. Beautiful flowers and fruits, vegetables, baked goods, surrounded by umbrella tables, and there was a cooling fountain, too. There is a rule that all food must be identified by point of origin, which is pretty cool-pretty much everything I looked at was grown by the people selling it, and was from Illinois or Michigan.

As a traveler, I was kind of frustrated, I would have bought loads if I was at home. But I did have a fridge in my room, so I got me some homemade cheddar and a mini ciabatti for sandwiches, as well as a small box of apricots. I was really pleased with everything, especially the apricots. I had just about given up on fresh apricots- though I love the dried ones.

Supermarket apricots generally taste like potatoes. These little guys were not particularly soft, but they were a lovely dark orange, with speckles, and the little boy selling them explained that there might be a few worm holes, as they hadn't sprayed for 2 years. I was glad I took a chance on them, they were sweet/tart and spicy- just delicious.

I gave one to the elderly lady sitting next to me on the plane home, and she agreed that they were heavenly. I also bought 2 bunches of beautiful Michigan asparagus, and carried them home in my tote bag on the plane. I was a little worried that they might be a problem with the security folks, but they passed through the x-ray without comment, and I was able to serve them to my friends Friday night.

The third night of class was as busy and informative as the first two; we finished and bottled up our chutneys and jams, and made numerous bottles of garlic dills. I was able to wrap my jam bottles in my laundry, to bring home in my checked suitcase, but had no room for 4 quarts of dill pickles, so those were donated to a classmate driving home. The final photo is Chef Bob Hartwig , arranging a gorgeous buffet of his beautiful baked goods and our mutual jams, jellies, chutneys and pickles. We tried everything, then packed up our loot, our certificates(!), and our French Pastry School aprons. Much though I love this supply of goodies, my most valuable memento is my little notebook of recipes, annotated with my class notes. And you will be seeing the results here, as time goes on.

July 13, 2008

I arrived at the French Pastry School offices a little early, as requested, to be given a pre-class tour of the place, which wound up in Kitchen Three, where Chef Bob Hartwig and his assistants were all set up. And I mean all set up. Unlike the students in the certificate program, continuing education participants have all our ingredients pre-measured for us and set up at our workspaces each day. Talk about pampering. There were only ten in the class, some food professionals, some semi-pros, who cater a bit, or sell some product to the public seasonally, and rank amateurs, like yrs truly.

Our instructor was a very clever young fellow, a good teacher, and a pastry chef of note, who clearly loves what he does, and communicates his passion for his work in a low-key, low-ego style, which is charming- and helpful. If you are thinking of taking a class at the FPS, I'm sure you will like this guy . You can read his bio on the FPS website, but what it does not tell you is that for the last year, he and his fiancee, also a chef, have had their own bakeshop in Chicago. It is called "Lovely".I wasn't able to visit it, but perhaps you can; I think it must be terrific, judging by the baked goods we sampled in class.

As a bonus, besides the jams, jellies and pickles, which we made ourselves after his demonstrations, Chef Bob, demonstrated and baked fantastic pound cakes, brioche, and some insanely good scones. There were also tarts in an special sweet pastry, with our marmalade, vanilla pastry cream, and pretty berries on top. I watched it all, tasted everything, and brought home the recipes, so look out! A member of the class asked him who would have the nerve to make their wedding cake, and he said that they were having pie instead. Which is genius in my book.

The first day we made, or started, orange marmalade, apple jelly with vanilla, strawberry-mint jam, chocolate raspberry jam and "nutella", and Chef Bob made or started the best scones ever, a sweet pastry with almond meal, brioche, and beautiful little pound cakes. You see in the photo two of my classmates- each of us shared workspace with another student. The mirror above allowed us to watch the product in demonstrations, a very handy teaching tool. It was very cool to see the various caramelization stages and techniques as they happened. Thus we learned to make a hazelnut praline for our nutella-nifty.

There were chef jackets to borrow, aprons and funny hats to keep. My partner was a real chef, Tim, who has an extremely cool, and apparently very upscale restaurant, the Stonehorse Cafe in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He was very kind and tolerant of my amateur clutziness.

I learned a whole lot of stuff, and am not going to attempt to convey much in the way of that sort of information here- I hope it will be reflected, to some extent, in future posts. However, one standout bit of info, which I somehow managed to avoid learning while making jam over the years, and was totally news to me, was the concept, and existence of the measurement of Brix. Brix (abbreviated"Bx") is a measurement of the ratio of dissolved sugar to water in a liquid. It is the ratio of sugar to total of the solution- so a 25Bx solution is 25% sugar and 75% water.

Here is the cool thing- if you didn't already know- perhaps this is general knowledge and I just missed it?- is that a solution which is going be jelled will be from 61-65 Bx. And you can measure the Bx with a little hand held Refractometer! Which we did. The deal is that it is not as magic as I thought it might be, our strawberry mint jam didn't jell properly, and made a lovely thickish sauce instead.

There are serious additional factors- eg. strawberries have a lot of water that leeches out over time. You are measuring the liquid while cooking it down, but it gets more water from the strawberries. Possible solutions include macerating the strawberries and sugar for a couple of days before cooking and including the exuding liquid in the measuring of the water. Or, as a classmate suggested; she lets her strawberry jam sit out and evaporate for a few days, then boils it up again before bottling up.

Nonetheless, the refractometer is a great tool, and I'm thinking about getting one. They are expensive- especially if you go for digital models. A handheld analog model, like the one we used in class is about $165. You have to make a lot of jam to warrant it, but still....Very easy to use- you smear a bit of your solution over a glass thingie like a lab slide, close it, and hold it up to the light to read.

Well, after class, I was really beat. 5 hours standing and/or perched on a stool after a major shopping day? Too old for this approach. So, I decided to take it easy on Wednesday. Basically, I ate too much breakfast again, goofed around, read my book, and visited an excellent poster shop, and had a lovely, if diminutive lunch at Russian Teatime. This restaurant, near the Art Institute, offers a variety of eastern european treats, and I wish I'd left myself the appetite for more. It is pleasantly dark and old-worldy looking, I'm a sucker for a gleaming samovar, and I dug it.

My lunch was small because I was still full from breakfast, alas. I had an appetizer portion of asparagus vareneky, a ukrainian dumpling- thin half moons of very thin noodle dough, filled with asparagus, red pepper, and feta cheese, boiled and served on a plate, drizzled with basil butter. I also had a glass of really lovely, properly hot russian tea, served with several kinds of pretty sugar cubes and lemon slices, as well as a complimentary loaf of some kind of oniony black bread, the remainder of which, I took away with me. All was delicious, and this time, I'd left myself enough time for a nap before class.

More about that, later.

First photo is from the FPS website; my camera photos of the process were too sad.

July 12, 2008

The idea for this trip started when I noticed, a few years ago, that Christine Ferber gave an annual class at the French Pastry School in Chicago. It was really expensive, but I thought I'd save my pennies and eventually get to see the goddess of jams and jellies in person and learn a few of her secrets. At the time I first noticed her class, it was open to "food enthusiasts" (hereinafter, as legal writers say, "FEs") and pros alike. I figured I'd stay in a hotel, and sightsee and/or shop in my off hours. When I finally had the time and money, the class had been changed to a pros-only event.

The FPS explained that after the prior class, they'd had the students fill out feedback forms. The FEs had complained that the class moved too quickly, while the pros had felt it was too slow-no doubt held back by the aforementioned FEs. So they decided to limit the class to pros and have another class that was more introductory. They assured me I'd enjoy that class, with "Chef Bob", and they were right.

The fellow you see pictured is not Chef Bob. In fact, he is entirely made of legos, and sits on a bench outside the Chicago legos store. I had a better photo of him, with his arm around an elderly (live) gentleman, who was waiting for his grandson, who was in the shop. He let me take his photo, but made me promise not to "put him on the internet", because, "My wife would kill me." Apparently she felt he might be (virtually?) kidnapped, and reappear on a porn site. So I will keep him safely ensconced on my own computer, having downloaded him from my phone. All the pictures you will see were taken on my phone- I cleverly forgot the camera.

Warning: Due to the nature of the travelogue/diary format, we don't actually get to the class itself until the next post. However, as a member of my class pointed out, Legoman is not entirely un-food-related. I'm not sure if you can tell from the phone-photo, but there is a chicken on his head, and a cracked egg on his shoulder. I'm just saying.

Somehow I have managed, once again, to begin with a digression, time-wise. So now I'm going linear: I flew into Chicago on Monday, and the plane was delayed, convincing me that my day-ahead approach was best. Despite an ETA of 1:30, and a class time of 4pm, I would have been late if the class had started Monday. Tim, my bench partner in class, flew in from Oklahoma on Tuesday morning-and sure enough, it made him a little late. It seems that all planes are now presumed delayed, unless the stars align just so. There was an unexpected bit of good luck on board, however. I was crazy, and ordered coffee. It was excellent. I mentioned my surprise and happiness to the flight attendant , who smiled slyly. "That's because it's from the pot I made for myself," she said.

I stayed at a hotel called the "Club Quarters" on West Adams, which I picked mostly because it was in very easy walking distance from the FPS, thus eliminating worries about finding my way back after class, at night. The hotel is part of a small chain, and supposed to be in some way private; but I booked it through Expedia, so how private is that? Still, you can't just call up to make a reservation; I tried that first. I recommend it highly.

What a deal! For $125 per night, in the middle of the Loop, I got a very large, ultra clean room. It had a huge desk, with reference books above and 2 ergonomic chairs, a bathroom with shower and the usual amenities, a flat tv, (which I never turned on, having a good book, and being too busy), a full kitchenette(!), a super, super comfortable bed, WIFI, and a real coffee maker with really good coffee to make. I suspect the decor is what they think businesspersons would like, very plain, dark blue and green necktie prints. I wasn't expecting Paris with a balcony, so it was more than fine with me- I prefer it to the usual mid-priced hotel idea of prettiness- I just bought a few flowers for cheer, as I was staying 4 nights.

Another reason for being glad I came the day before class started was that it gave me a chance for an evening meal, and it was a good one. I had dinner at Brasserie Jo, the "more casual bistro" of Chef John Joho of the super-posh Everest restaurant in Chicago, as well as the "Eiffel Tower" restaurant in the Paris Hotel, Las Vegas. I came to town with a copy of the Slow Food Guide to Chicago. The idea was that I would do some sight-seeing and/or shopping in the morning, find someplace neat to eat my main meal of the day at lunchtime, and then have a little rest before the 5 hour class, repeat X3, with possible light snack supper after class in my room. So this was to be my only major evening meal.

I really enjoyed my dinner at Brasserie Jo. Though I am not shy, and have had many meals out on my own, I have been a little cowed by the idea of a really special meal out, all alone. In part, this is because eating is such a social activity in my mind, but only in part. I think I was mostly nervous that the other diners and the wait staff might think it odd, or feel sorry for me, and that I would sense this, and rush- spoiling the entertainment of it all. Also, I was a little worried that it might be tricky to get a taxi afterward, in the dark.

Not a bit of it...it was great. I got a little bit dressed up, grey silk jacket, strappy sandals, and felt very woman-of-the-world the whole time. My photos of the restaurant are useless, due to dim lighting, many mirrors, and my lack of skill. You can check it out at the website.

It is a nice example of traditional brasserie decor, art deco-y, and less crowded between the tables than is the usual brasserie custom- all to the good. Personally, I am comforted by banquettes, mirrors, wood, brass and displays of magnum bottles of wine on shelves. Perhaps I was taken to such a place as an infant? The very look and feel of this sort of room makes me hungry.

Dinner was delicious, and I enjoyed being fussed over by my very young waiter, who took my salad off my bill because he was disappointed that I hadn't finished it. (The vinagrette was too salty for my taste- the only, and minor, flaw in the meal.)

Chef Joho is a native of Alsace, and the menu reflects this heritage. There was so much to choose from, many delicious things- sweetbreads with crisp macaroni, escargot, flammkuchen of several kinds, duck rilettes; I was wildly torn, until I saw my very favorite thing, skate wing with brown butter and capers. When I ordered it, the baby waiter broke suavity, and cried, "Ack! I love that! That's totally the best thing on the menu!" Which was, you know, endearing. The skate was served over some delicious, very creamy mashed potatoes, and a little fresh spinach, with small curls of very crispy, but pale-colored fried onion, or maybe leek? I absolutely cleaned my plate with the help of some of my very own small baguette, made (well) by a bakery down the street.

Dessert was creme brulee, very considerately prepared in a shallow dish, allowing for plenty of the ultra-thin, crackly top to go with each bite of the smooth custard. I took the rest of the baguette back to the hotel with me, and pretty much just crashed. I mean, you know, I was trying to read this very interesting book (about which more later), and woke to find it's form imprinted on my cheek, the book open to page twenty. Fortunately, I was in bed while reading.

Tuesday morning, I hit the hotel restaurant- a proto pub called the Elephant and Castle- for an insanely huge "English Breakfast", which involved grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, "bangers"(a/k/a fat sausages), cubes of fried potatoes, and eggs. This caused a revision of the lunch plan, as I was stuffed to the gills, and rendered unable to consider another meal of significance until the following day. Okay, really. I love to eat a big breakfast out, and walk away from all the greasy dishes, like a guest at the Mad Hatter's tea party. After a brief trip to the building across the street to stock the fridge with sandwich stuff, and buy flowers, I did me some shopping.

I started at Vosges Haut-Chocolat (520 N. Michigan) to pay my respects at the home of my very favorite chocolate treat- the Barcelona Bar-(Deep milk chocolate, almonds and sea salt). Owner chocolatier Katrina Markoff creates incredible flavor combinations in her truffles, hot chocolates and chocolate bars- kaffir lime, cardomom, wasabi, chipotle- crazy but delicious, and somehow never weird. I stocked up on candy bars, and also tried a fancy box of nine marshmallow toffee chocolate things, a new and very worthy item, which they store in the freezer. Each one is pretty much a dessert unto itself. I got four free truffles for having my own shopping bag to carry off my loot.

Other stops included the Lego Store (900 N. Michigan) and Nordstrom Rack (the discount shop for the department store, it's near Macy's-formerly Marshall Field). At the latter, they were having a sale of large sized shoes! (I'm an eleven- a size not carried at all in many shops; I was over the moon.) It took me way too long to pick out my bargain- the choices were so overwhelming, and the prices so good. I decided to go for the crazy, since they were so affordable, and now I have some silvery Taryn Rose sandals.

I gave myself a good 2 hours turnaround time for class, and headed back to the hotel, a little more footsore than was really wise, under the circumstances. But more on that, later.

July 26, 2005

My friend Ilene is an excellent cook, and also a skilled surveyor of thrift shops . Furthermore, she favors, for her kitchen, things which are green, and things which are orange, as do I. Consequently, there are any number of objects in her kitchen which I envy, and would wish to steal.

It is delightful to have a friend who in addition to her other sterling qualities, has such a good idea of what you will like that she can call you on the phone to tell you she found something you want, and be correct 99% of the time. (We will not delve heavily into the other 1%, involving as it does her professed unshakable conviction that I collect Topo Gigio type ceramic mice. She finds my spluttering indignant denials very amusing.) It is also delightful to have a friend who makes you a tasty dinner every other thursday night, and is a companionable guest at your house on the other weeks. It is very pleasant to go to Ilene's and be well fed, and also to see what nifty item she has found this time.

This is a galley kitchen, and quite compact and well worked out visually and functionally. Besides looking, in my opinion, very cool, pretty much every clever and attractive item also has some kitchen purpose, storing something which should be on hand. Of course, it is an ever evolving design, as things are arranged to make way for others, or rotated elsewhere. Having cooked in both galley kitchens and a larger one, I personally favor a galley- with as much counterspace as possible, so that you can turn, and get what you are looking for. So this is a kind of kitchen I particularly like.

Ilene has an especially good eye for kitcheny paraphenalia of the thirties, forties, and fifties, some of which is appealing for its humor, as well as its good looks. She has a number of funky flour sifters. One I enjoy depicts a sparkly, happy 1950's mom, twinkling merrily at her tidy family. Her twinkle is actual, in an asterisk like shape. Like L. in Brighton, Ilene often has fresh flowers around, and arranges fruits and vegs to look fetching, while they are sitting around waiting to be cooked.

This is a cook who will go out of her way for exceptional ingredients, and appreciates a tree-ripened peach and brand new baby potatoes. Indeed, she is the very person who generously introduced me to the Honeycrisp Apple, when she could have kept them all for herself. (In case you did not know, this is simply the all time apple for eating out of hand. If you are fortunate enough to find some of these this autumn, do not waste your time or these apples cooking them. They are merely good, when used in cooking. Fresh, they have the snappiest snap, a fabulous honey-wine taste, and so much juice you will think you had a glass of cider. I'm not kidding. Just leave some for us.)

Ilene's kitchen also contains the twin of my beloved and ridiculous FrancisFrancis espresso machine. She found both of them at Williams Sonoma a few years ago-the last two, wildly on sale in a discontinued color, and gave me a call. They were madly expensive at full price then, and have gone even more crazy since, so this was a great good fortune. Any kitchen set up with one of these green babies is a step ahead, let me tell you. I love mine.

A decorative and charming element of Ilene's kitchen, and indeed her whole house, is Josie, a beautiful black and white Maine Coon cat of extraordinary grace. I would have taken her pretty picture, but she is terribly shy, and doesn't even wait until you get the camera out to run away and hide. So you will have to take my word for her, and picture her delicately muching on her special kind of turkey, from her bowl in the kitchen corner.

July 16, 2005

When D and E came to live in my attic "temporarily" 8 or 9 years ago, they did not cook. They bought the groceries and I generally cooked for us all. They did not appear, at that time, likely to spend much time in any kitchen, let alone a particularly nice one. They were, however, great, easy going , entertaining and thoroughly nice roommates.

They had no view at all, except for the rooftop view you get from the tiny little triangular window visible when bathing in the old, clawfoot tub in the attic bathroom. They lived in the space my daughter had occupied before she went away to college. It was kind of squished, and the room retained its tossed-around, adolescent look. Some of their furniture, including a remarkable eclectic unintentional collection of end tables they had somehow accumulated, lived in the garage. Their temporary stay lasted several years, until I sold the house, and we all moved.

That's when they bought their wonderful, amazing house in the Schenley Terrace section of Pittsburgh, situated between the posh Schenley Farms, and the "Sugar Top" section of the Hill District. This place has a beautiful view of the city, looking out over Oakland, and it is really big. It is also an arts and crafts period house with virtually untouched original glass and woodwork. There is a ton of built in arts and crafts furniture. This includes, for example, an oak buffet, with leaded windows depicting squirrels toting tiny acorns. There is a sun room, with double leaded glass doors. Deep windowseats and a wide stairway... On and On. I will not even tell you about the deal they got on the place, because unless you live in Pittsburgh, you won't believe me. I doubt if there is another actual city where ordinary people (like say, a schoolteacher and a photographer/student/part-time techie) could manage a place like this. Even for Pittsburgh it was an astonishing (and richly deserved) find.

Anyhow, when they first moved in, they dealt with the roof problems, and had to replace some iffy windows. They have been furnishing, painting etc, slowly, as they can, and the place is looking awfully good. Their kitchen is the original, with some added countertops and a dishwasher. I think the gas stove grew out of the floor, it is so old. But it is cool, simple and still works. It is nicer than the one that came with my apartment, sturdier, without gimmicky bits.

They have some really tall original oak kitchen cabinets, and their kitchen now has utensils, and pots and pans, and knives and things, even cookbooks, because they now cook. And they cook well. They have some specialities, including a mean pasta wheels and asparagus dish. They have had big dinners for D's huge family- last time there was family from out of town they made giant pots of real Gumbo. I had some too, and it was excellent. They also make a fine Pimm's cup, and invented a starter involving haloummi and sundried tomatoes. Yum.

I am proud of them, and I love their kitchen. (Why, you may well ask, am I proud? I don't know, do I some how deserve credit for having clever friends? Nevertheless, an irrational feeling of pride persists.)

This kitchen is a fine place to stand around drinking beer and meddling in the food preparations. I hope they will maybe save a section of their astonishingly well preserved funky kitchen wallpaper as they continue with their refurbishing. Personally, I'd have a hard time giving up that stove, too.

Here is how you make a Pimm's Cup, which is a very refreshing sort of summer drink. It has a lttle bit of a garden party, "tennis anyone?", 1930's air about it. It also tastes terrific and slightly bitter, in a nice way:

Fill a tumbler 1/2 full of ice cubes. Fill glass to 1/3 full with Pimm's #1, which you can get at the liquor store. Add a round slice of cucumber and a round slice of orange. Fill to top with ginger ale. Stir.

Here is how you make haloummi starters: Haloummi, as you probably already know, is a lovely salty cheese which comes from Cyprus. It comes in an oblong block from which you cut thinish oblong slices. You then brown the slices of cheese in a saute or frying pan. Haloummi is more suited to this treatment than other cheeses, as it maintains its shape while browning up nicely. You put each browned slice on a slice of toasted baguette or oblong sesame cracker. Top with a bit of oil packed sundried tomato. Serve, possibly with a Pimms.

I first had haloummi in Cyprus two summers ago. I came home prepared to show off what I thought was an exotic find, and before I could even mention it , D and E had served it up at their house, having discovered it around the corner in the union-busting, pocketbook squeezing, at times annoyingly alluring market known, among other things, as "Toll Foods."

July 09, 2005

It is interesting, though probably not very polite, to take a walk in the evening, when lights are on, but blinds are still not down, and watch the passing display of rooms, in other people's houses. I've heard that when I was small, and looked at picture books with adults, I often asked unanswerable,
but non-cosmic questions such as "What is in that cupboard?" , "Is there a bedroom behind that door?", and, of course, "What is that they're having for dinner?" When I was a little older, I read the Laura Ingalls Wilder books over and over, at least in part because they anwered these nosy questions of mine in such complete detail.
You will probably not be all that surprised to hear that other people's kitchens are a particular interest. I like to see how they have set things up, what equipment they chose and how they adapted to what they were stuck with. Often, someone's kitchen, when you know them, has some detail which is particularly characteristic or revealing, because for an involved cook, it is a pretty personal room.

It is also fun to consider what it would be like to cook somewhere different. It is interesting, and at times unnerving to cook in other people's kitchens, helping them, or taking over to give someone a break. Sometimes it seems as if each inhabited kitchen has its own set of assumptions, which may not be obvious. These must be explained, intuited, or puzzled out, so that you can function without messing up the place, or the food. Tact may be needed, or imagination.

So I've been thinking about those kitchens of family, friends, and acquaintances, and also of some total strangers (whose houses sometimes appear in the press) which strike me , for some reason, as particularly pleasant, or cleverly done, or provoking or horrible.

The kitchen pictured here belongs to my cousin and friend L.. I visited her in England this spring, when she was in the middle of remodeling her kitchen, which was going to be quite different than before. There were already fewer fitted cabinets, and it was lighter in feel, and filled with daylight. She had installed new sleek cabinets just before I arrived . You can sort of see them in the photo, which was not taken with foodblogging in mind. They are honey colored wood, and quite satiny; they have modern looking brushed silver metal handles, and feel very warm and smooth. Her window looks out on a pretty patch of her garden.

While I was there, the plasterers came and did the walls, preparatory to painting and tile setting. You may be able to see that the plaster was creamy and dark at first. It needed to dry out and cure before further work was done, and it was cool to watch it change color as it dried. It was still in the drying process two weeks later, when I left for home. The mottled plaster fresco-like look was very appealing , but it would, of course, be impossible to leave bare plaster in a kitchen, since it would absorb every molecule of ambient grease.

We went and looked at ceramic tiles together; L. had not made her selection yet when I left. There were so many beautiful ones, and she was going to pick tiles for the floor, as well as some for a backsplash behind counters. It is hard to decide what to get- I would have the same problem. You may have these tiles to look at for the rest of your life. How do you reconcile the desire for something really interesting, and the hope that they won't become tiresome? And, too, you'd like them to be flexible enough to accomodate changes in wall color and the like, which you may wish for later.
This is a happy kind of dilemma, which allows you to examine lots of beautiful things.

Brighton is the very place for doing that. I have never been in another city with such an ambundance of beautiful, unique arty and otherwise appealing shops (and restaurants). L also intended to get new pots and pans with glass lids, and had whittled down her dinnerware to what was needed, all looking nice together, simple, and clean. We browsed pots and pans and other kitchen goodies in The Lanes, including at the posh Steamer Trading Cookshop, with its 3 stories of kitchen things. There I bought L. a house gift of a good knife. This was a hectoring sort of present, really. Everyone had made exuberent fun of me when I mashed up and ruined a lovely, very fresh loaf of bread from a special bakery, cutting it up for picnic sandwiches. All the household knives were very dull; it was like beating the bread with a baseball bat. However, when L. took over, she was able to cut nice neat slices with the same, club-like tools . So who was this gift for, anyway? I hope she will enjoy it regardless.

I'm not sure if L. is planning to keep her round table, where everyone tends to gather to talk. Her kitchen is a very welcoming room and clearly her own. Even in its unfinished state, it is a place where people want to sit and talk, because they want to sit around with her.

When ever L goes food shopping, she always gets fresh flowers for her house and puts some on her kitchen table. I now do the same (although I do not have a kitchen table- so my flowers go in my dining room). I read somewhere, awhile back, that if you have fresh flowers, really good coffee, and the best available bread, you will always feel rich. I agree, with the caveat, of course, that you must also have enough to eat and a bed to sleep in and a roof over your head, or there is no chance that you will feel okay. Having all six makes me a fairly priviledged character.